


The First Time

by cuethe_pulse



Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M, Near Death, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuethe_pulse/pseuds/cuethe_pulse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn’t how Sanji wanted it to be. (Thriller Bark)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Time

This is the first time you’ve seen him naked, and you resent it.  
  
You’ve been thinking about this, this moment, ever since you first kissed (two long and torturous days after a Noro Noro Beam had you slowly hurtling toward each other’s open mouths) and maybe that makes you a bit of a pervert, but you’re young and you don’t like waiting. But you _have_ been waiting (as patiently as you’re able) for _so long_. Because he has this untouched-virtuous thing which surprises you a little and yet makes a lot of sense at the same time. And because you don’t really get ample time to explore, ever, what with all the adventures, and this new ship is big but still _everyone_ seems to be _everywhere_ all the time and there’s just no privacy. But mostly because he’s asked you, asked you to wait, to be-as-patient-as-you’re-able, and when it comes to Important Things like this, you’ll do what he asks.   
  
So you’ve been waiting, and thinking. Imagining dim lighting and slow touches and the lingering possessive press of your lips to every inch of his skin (and not even Mihawk’s signature can beat your claim on him). You’ve never imagined this.   
  
You can see everything. Chopper had you strip away all of his ruined, blood-drenched clothing, and you did it without protest, without any words at all. You haven’t been able to speak since finding him, since having him look at you with unseeing-and-nearly-dead eyes before falling into your arms.   
  
You’ve imagined speaking when this happened. Teasing him, maybe, although there’s nothing to tease about, you find (but you didn’t honestly expect anything different). Whispering sweet nothings into his ear that would make him roll his eyes. Hissing encouragement eventually, when his naked body meets yours, urging him to touch you like you're touching him, to love you harder, to not hold back.  
  
But no. This is nothing like your imaginings. He’s magnificent, probably, but you can’t tell. There’s so much blood. It’s pooled in every crevice. You wash it away with a wet cloth. Your touch is soft but far from sensuous, and he doesn’t respond to it, not even the strokes between his thighs. His lashes don’t flutter. His skin doesn’t grow flushed or hard beneath your palm. Your name doesn’t pass from between his lips. You doubt he even knows you’re there, seeing him, seeing and feeling everything you’ve been waiting for, and you _resent_ it.  
  
And you’re not waiting this long again, not when he’s going to do remarkably stupid things and get himself nearly killed. You’re not going to lose the chance to have this moment a second time and have it _right_.  
  
Two long and torturous days later, when he wakes up and kisses you, you start imagining all over again.


End file.
